


Secret Favours, Sweet, And Precious

by mysticanni



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Dancing, Forests, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticanni/pseuds/mysticanni
Summary: John gets drunk on market day, misses his ride home and decides to take the short cut through the forest during a storm.No one ever goes into the forest.But the whispered tales of werewolves and witches can't be true, can they?
Relationships: John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 30
Collections: The Clog Factory Halloween Exchange 🎃





	Secret Favours, Sweet, And Precious

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetestsight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/gifts).



> For the lovely and amazingly talented @sweetestsight 
> 
> Title from Tam O’Shanter by Robert Burns and the story owes a lot to it too.

England 1954

The wind howls and the rain lashes against the window panes. But John has a seat by the fire and a drink on the table in front of him and he is barely aware of the storm. It has been a prosperous market day for him. His wallet is fat and his pockets are heavy with coins.

Well, they were. He has drunk some of his profits now. Market day is always a lucrative day for the publican.

Last orders are called. John decides to have one for the road. He is amongst the last to leave, staggering out of the pub and shivering as cold rain batters him, the wind swirling his coat around his lean body.

He sets off on foot. 

*

He came here this morning in a Ford Thames van owned by his neighbour, Mr Beach, who sells rugs and towels and bedding at the market. Mr Beach also gave Freddie a lift and transported the clothing Freddie sells. Mr Beach has sensibly returned to his wife without setting foot in the pub. Freddie will be warming the bed of the publican, Brian, tonight and John must walk home.

John’s own small van is awaiting a part that will make it roar into life again. John dreams of a Ford Zephyr but something like the Ford Thames would be much more practical. 

As John jumped out of the van that morning Freddie had yelled, too loudly, “Enjoy twiddling people’s sticky knobs, dear!” which caused John to blush and earned him a disapproving look from an elderly lady in a headscarf walking a yappy terrier.

John has spent the day fixing electrical items for the residents of the town. 

A toddler had jammed a partially eaten rusk into one of the ‘key’ slots of a Hoover Keymatic washing machine which had proved challenging. The Hoover was brand new and had cost a fortune, the child’s mother confided to John, so she was anxious it was fixed before her husband returned home from work otherwise he would “go mad”. She had been grateful when John had successfully extricated the soggy rusk and got the machine working again. For a second John had thought she was going to offer him something other than money in payment and had felt pure panic but then she had raided her “rainy day” tin and given him cash.

John had walked out to a farm where he had replaced a fraying wire on a utility set – a Wartime Civilian Receiver. They were boxy unattractive radios but John supposed making them look pretty had not been a consideration – people simply needed something to listen to Churchill’s speeches on. Almost ten years after the end of the war this set was still in good working order apart from the cable which the farmer’s wife explained their puppy had chewed on.

*

“Grand-mama always said that there are wolves in the forest,” Freddie had said that morning on their way to town in the van as the road skirted the edge of the forest that lay between the market town and the village they lived in.

“There aren’t any wolves, Freddie,” John had laughed, “not in England.”

“It’s one of the reasons no one goes in to the forest now,” Freddie insisted. 

“I don’t know about wolves,” Mr Beach had said mildly, “although there have been rumours...but I do know there’s a storm coming. I’ll be leaving once I’ve packed up my stall if you want a lift back – I don’t want to hang about.”

Yet as John walked back from the farm the sun was bright in a clear blue sky – it was a crisp October day and he sat by a babbling brook to eat the sandwiches he had made that morning. It did not seem stormy at all. 

And so, after fixing several more radio sets, a Belling cooker and a couple of lamps John had gone to the pub with Freddie instead of going home with Mr Beach.

Alas for John Mr Beach had turned out to be correct about the storm after all. 

* 

The walk will do him good, he tells himself as a gust of wind almost knocks him over. He will take the shortcut through the forest he decides. The beer has given him courage.

If he does not stray from the path he will be safe enough, he tells himself.

*

The trees tower above him. There is a full moon but the clouds scudding across the sky, hurried by the wind, obscure it. The night is dark. The forest is darker. 

The dense canopy of leaves offers some protection from the driving rain. But the wind makes an eerie whistling sound as it sweeps between the trees.

Everyone avoids the forest.

The path, rarely used, is overgrown and thorns pluck at John’s clothes as he fights his way along the track. Perhaps this was unwise, he thinks. Perhaps it will not prove a shorter route home after all. 

But he is here now. He presses forward.

A glimmer of light catches his eye. There – then gone. 

He has a fellow traveller, it seems. Perhaps they have also decided to take the shortcut through the forest although they seem to have strayed from the path. They also seem to possess a torch which John now covets. “Is anyone there?” he calls. 

There is no reply and the light seems to have vanished as quickly as it came.

John continues on his way. It was a trick of the light, perhaps. Not that there is much light.

*

The forest is full of noises. It rustles and sighs. The foliage on the forest floor heaves and sways in the wind as if it is breathing. The forest is alive.

John moves forward, regretting coming this way, regretting wearing heeled boots. His clothes are torn now and he has lost his hat, whipped away by the wind. His wet hair was being swept around his face earlier but his hair has now been plastered to his head by the rain. 

The path seems never-ending.

A light glimmers again. John is sure he sees it this time. He moves towards it, almost without thinking about it.

Then he halts.

There are stories about this forest. Tales of those who have ventured in but never returned. 

There is one thing everyone agrees on – you must never stray from the path.

But these are old wives tales, are they not? And John is a modern man of science.

Something howls in the distance.

John thinks of Freddie’s stories of wolves. But there are no wolves. 

He steps off the track and finds a new path seems to open up before him. Indeed, this is an easier path with no cursed briars and brambles tearing at his clothes and his flesh.

The light flickers further ahead now. John follows. 

*

The light seems to be moving away from him. Is it someone with a lantern or torch? Are they luring him away from the path to rob him? John thinks of his laden pockets. But not even thieves usually frequent the forest. There is no one to prey on. Besides, if he is attacked his heavy metal tool-box will prove a good weapon.

And if he follows this path then it will surely take him out of the forest at some point?

Won’t it?

He might not be exactly where he wants to be but he will be slightly less tattered and bloody if this route remains an easy one to traverse. 

And so he continues to follow the light.

*

He is not sure how long he has been walking for when the trees thin out and he finds himself in a clearing –a clearing containing a cottage with light spilling out of the door, which is ajar. The moving light seems to have vanished.

John steps towards the cottage then stops.

No one lives in the forest.

There are no stories of anyone living in the forest. 

Someone clearly lives in the forest.

The door swings open further as if inviting him in. “Hullo?” he calls.

“Come in,” a voice replies, “Come in out of the storm.”

So John enters the cottage.

*

He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the light after the darkness of the night. He gratefully sets down his heavy tool-box on the flag-stoned floor of the hallway. 

A man with long golden hair is smiling at him. He is beautiful. The situation feels surreal and John wonders for a moment if he is dreaming. Has he dozed off in the pub, lulled to sleep by the warmth of the fire and the beer he has consumed? Will he wake in a moment, disappointingly, just as this enchanting man leans in to kiss him?

The man extends his arm and gently clasps John’s hand. He tugs John into a cosy sitting room with a blazing fire. John stumbles eagerly towards the fire. “That’s right,” his new companion approves.

John glances around. On a small table beside an armchair sits an Ekco A22 radio. “Beautiful,” John breathes. He has never seen one in real life before. Designed by an architect the Ekco is both functional and gorgeous.

“The wireless?” his host queries, following his gaze. He pouts. “Not me?”

John blushes. “You are very beautiful too,” he says, truthfully. 

“It’s the record player I need fixed,” the man says, still sounding a little sulky. “But I’ll make us some tea, first.”

“The...You...Need...Fixed?” John gabbles. 

“The record player,” the man repeats, gesturing towards a Dansette Bermuda record player standing in the corner. “I’m Roger,” he adds.

“Uh...John,” John says, indicating himself. 

“Yes, dear, I know,” Roger says in the manner of someone explaining something to a child. “I’ll go and make the tea,” he adds and leaves the room. 

*

Roger takes John’s sodden coat and hangs it up. He gives John a soft fluffy towel to mop his hair with.

They have tea and cake sitting in companionable silence in comfortable chairs near the fire. “How do you know my name?” John asks after a while.

Roger wriggles delightfully in his chair and fishes a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his tight jeans. He holds the paper out so John can take it. John realises it is one of the flyers he leaves around town to advertise his services. He nods. Then he thinks about this... “But...”

How had Roger known he would take the route through the forest and stray off the path to Roger’s cottage?

“I summoned you,” Roger tells him as if this explains everything. He smiles sweetly at John.

“Summoned me?” John frowns. He is going to wake up at any moment and he will not have been kissed. 

“Yes, I summoned you,” Roger repeats, “I’m a witch.”

Of course he is. “Of course you are,” John laughs, “and that howl I heard outside was a wolf!”

“Probably a werewolf,” Roger says. “There’s a full moon, isn’t there? They usually stick to the other side of the forest. They’re very sweet. Their hair gets everywhere though. Perhaps you could look at my vacuum cleaner while you’re here?” He smiles brightly at John.

“I’ll wake up in a minute,” John mutters. 

Roger sighs. “I’m quite real. Should I perform a spell for you?” He surveys John and then makes a gesture with one of his hands.

John is astonished to find that the rips the thorns tore in his trousers are mending themselves in front of his eyes. But, of course they are. “This is a dream,” he states confidently. “You are a dream.”

“Thank you,” Roger smiles, “You are awake though.” John shakes his head obstinately. “Well, I don’t know how to convince you.” Roger sighs then his face brightens. “But in your dream you should absolutely fix the record player!”

*

And so John retrieves his tool-box from the hall and crouches in front of the Dansette which sits prettily before him on its detachable wooden legs. If this is a dream it is a very realistic one.

After a while he looks up. Roger smiles at him. “Er...Do you want to try playing something?” John asks.

Roger beams at him and reaches into a box of LPs, withdrawing one by someone called Abba that John has never heard of. “This is from the future,” Roger tells him, “My grandfather could travel in time and sometimes he could bring things back. I think you’ll like this.”

John tries to turn his disbelieving snort into a cough but does not think he has fooled Roger. A time travelling grandfather, indeed! Roger adds, “Grandpapa said the Ekco radio would be worth a thousand pounds far in the future if it was still working!” He giggles as if he finds this as absurd as John does.

*

John likes Abba very much.

He dances with Roger, bopping around the cosy sitting room singing along. They are the dancing queens, young and sweet.

He smiles, laughing with Roger as the music ends. “This is a wonderful dream!” he exclaims. 

“The best part is that it isn’t a dream,” Roger tells him. 

“Can you travel in time?” John enquires. 

“Sadly not,” Roger says. “We think that in our family every tenth generation we have a time-traveller.”

“Couldn’t you have fixed the record player using magic?” John wonders. 

Roger smiles and shakes his head. “I can’t fix mechanical devices using magic,” he explains. “I can heal people and animals and mend clothing but machines and magic don’t mix.” He is close to John now and places one warm hand on John’s chest. “But perhaps a mechanic and a magician would mix?” he murmurs. 

John leans closer eager for his dream kiss which is every bit as good as he would have hoped for from this dream. Roger’s lips are warm and he tastes faintly of apples. The kiss is passionate and full of promise. John could wake up happily now.

He thinks when he opens his eyes he will be back in the pub. But he is not – he is being studied by Roger’s big blue eyes.

Roger takes his hand and leads him upstairs to his bedroom. He begins to unbutton John’s shirt then halts. “This is not a dream,” he says. “I don’t want to take advantage of you if you don’t understand that this is real – that I am real.”

John thinks of the tea. “Was there a love potion in the tea?” he asks. This really is the most gloriously ridiculous dream ever. 

“No there wasn’t,” Roger snaps, looking offended, “Do I look like I need to drug people to get them into bed?” he huffs.

John grins. “No, you’re quite literally my dream man,” he points out. “Something baked into the cake perhaps?”

“There was nothing in the fucking cake!” Roger cries, looking outraged. “This is impossible! You are not under a spell and this is not a bloody dream! Oh, forget it!” he mutters, storming towards the bedroom door.

John catches Roger’s arm and pulls him back towards the bed. “Not so hasty, dream lover,” he laughs. He presses his lips to Roger who struggles for a moment in his arms then melts into his kiss. “I don’t think I care if I am under a spell or if this is a dream,” John murmurs. “I want you.”

*

John blinked drowsily and rolled onto his back. He looked up at the unexpectedly sloping ceiling. His bedroom ceiling did not slope. 

He was not in his bedroom. 

He sat up. He was alone in the bed. Sunlight was streaming in through a gap in the curtains.

He recalled the night before – the forest – the cottage – Roger. He could hear music drifting upstairs. He grinned and scrambled out of bed. There was a robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door which he slipped on and went downstairs.

Roger was in a little kitchen at the back of the cottage naked apart from an apron. A black cat was weaving around his ankles. “Is this your familiar?” John joked.

“Good morning,” Roger sang, “Yes, this is my familiar, Chance. Would you like a bacon roll?”

“Yes, please,” John nodded, sliding onto a chair at the kitchen table. 

They had breakfast and then had a bath together. John scrambled back into his clothes. Roger dressed too. “Well,” John said, “I guess this is goodbye.”

Roger looked sad. “I suppose so,” he murmured. 

John wondered when he was going to wake up. He followed Roger back downstairs. Roger produced a little green glass bottle with a cork in the top. “Your payment,” he told John, holding the bottle out to him. 

“What is it?” John asked suspiciously.

“If you make a wish and then drink it your wish will come true within the next two days,” Roger told him. 

“Or my money back?” John teased. 

“Well, don’t fucking believe it, then,” Roger huffed, “I suppose you still think this is a dream?”

“You’re adorable when you’re grumpy,” John told him, kissing his cheek. 

*

In the bright sunshine of a lovely autumnal day the forest no longer seemed threatening. Birdsong filled the air. The path seemed less overgrown.

John walked back to the market town thinking it would be more sensible to get a bus home or to see if he could catch a lift with someone heading his way. 

Except this was all a dream, wasn’t it?

*

The market square was quiet. John glanced up at the clock on the front of the town hall and realised it was still early. He sat on the bench at the bus stop and waited patiently for a bus.

As he waited the door of the pub opened and Freddie staggered out, glancing around to make sure there was no one watching as he kissed Brian goodbye. He ran lightly across the road to where John was sitting. “John, darling, I’m so glad to see you! We were so worried when you went out into the storm last night! You could have stayed with us!” Freddie frowned. “If you didn’t make it home then where did you spend the night?” he wondered.

“Is this real?” John demanded, “Are you real, or am I dreaming?”

“I’m real, dear. Are you okay?” Freddie asked, sounding concerned now. 

“But you would say that if this was a dream, of course,” John murmured.

“I’m perfectly real,” Freddie assured him. “We were at the market yesterday. You left the pub in a storm to try to walk home...Did something hit you on the head?”

*

A few days passed. John accepted that he was not stuck in a dream as real life continued. The part for his van arrived and he resumed driving around the countryside to fix electrical appliances.

No one had heard of a cottage in the forest. John had asked casually at each house he visited. John wondered if he had been delirious – wandering all night in the forest in a kind of stupor. He could not think what would have caused that but it was the only explanation he could think of.

It was the only explanation other than Roger actually being a witch who lived secretly in the forest. 

And that would be nonsensical, of course.

*

The postman handed John his post and mentioned that his wife’s Kenwood mixer was on the blink and would John have time to have a look at it? John agreed that he would. It occurred to him that if anyone would know about a cottage in the forest it would be the postman.

“Mr Taylor?” the postman said, immediately, when John asked if he knew of anyone living in the forest. “Long blond hair? Yes, yes, I sometimes deliver packages to him. He comes in to town to pick up his post at the post office usually, though. Nice bloke – makes an amazing cream that helps our Cathy’s eczema wonderfully.”

John felt faint. It sounded as if Roger actually existed. 

*

If Roger actually existed that meant the little green glass bottle John had tucked in to one of the many pockets in his coat should also exist. John rummaged through his pockets and – there it was.

What had Roger said? Make a wish and drink the contents then your wish will come true? 

What if he wished for Roger? Could you wish for a person? Were there rules? Did magic have rules?

Did he need to wish for Roger? Could he just go to the cottage and see him?

He decided to go and fix the Kenwood mixer and consider his options while he was working. Making an appliance functional again always soothed him. 

*

“It’s kind of you to have come over so quickly Mr Deacon,” the postman’s wife said. “Our Belinda’s to be married soon and I need the mixer for the wedding cake.”

John nodded distractedly, his attention focussed on the appliance. The postman’s wife offered him a cup of tea and he accepted. 

“What’s her name?” the postman’s wife asked as they sat at the kitchen table sipping tea.

“Um...?” John gave her a politely bewildered look.

“I’ve three grown-up children, Mr Deacon,” she said, “and I can tell when someone is fretting about a love affair.” She sipped her tea and looked at him. “His name, perhaps?” she suggested. “Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul. My brother is that way inclined.”

John sighed. “I was...” He could not really say he had thought his encounter was a dream. “I’d had too much to drink and...I’m not sure if I should go back and see him.”

She reached across the table and patted his hand. “If you go to see him you can apologise for being drunk. Something wonderful might come out of it or nothing might come of it but either way you will have done the right thing.”

*

It seemed a bit ridiculous going to the market town when John could have entered the forest by walking a short distance out of his own village but he thought he had a better chance of finding the cottage if he re-traced his steps from the night of the storm.

It was late afternoon and the light was already starting to fade. The forest was gloomy. He wondered uneasily if he should have waited until the morning.

A twig snapped. John’s head snapped in the direction of the noise. He was ridiculously jumpy he thought crossly. It was probably a rabbit. 

Or a werewolf, he thought. 

He had not looked at Roger’s vacuum cleaner. He had not brought his tool-box. Perhaps Roger only valued his skills at repairing domestic appliances.

He thought of what had happened in the bedroom and flushed slightly – he suspected those were not the only skills Roger had appreciated. 

Roger had summoned him last time, if you believed in that kind of thing, which, even now, John was struggling to. If Roger did not want to be found would his cottage remain unseen by John?

He walked on, seeing evidence of where he had crashed through the forest previously. Surely he must be close to the place where he had turned off and headed to Roger’s cottage?

He jumps as he hears a loud rustling. Then he hears a meow. Looking down he sees a pair of disembodied golden eyes staring at him – the rest of Roger’s black cat is lost in the darkness so his bright eyes appear to be floating in the air.

“Chance,” John remembers. “Can you take me to Roger?” he wonders, feeling slightly ridiculous talking to a cat. 

The cat turns and stalks off. In the gloom of the forest John loses sight of the cat almost immediately. He heads in the direction he thinks the cat has taken and then sees a little orb of light floating in front of him. The orb bobs away from him and John follows it gratefully. 

*

Roger is leaning against the door frame of the cottage as John approaches. “You took your time,” he sniffs.

“Sorry,” John offers, adding, “You are quite dreamy.”

Roger laughs, “It’s a good thing you’re cute!” He stands aside to allow John to enter.

“I’m sorry I didn’t think you were real,” John tells him, thinking of the postman’s wife’s advice.

Roger pins him up against the wall and kisses him by way of reply. He kicks the front door shut and they stumble upstairs, still kissing one another and also starting to struggle out of their clothes.

*

The following morning John has bruises in various places from various activities. He lies happily in Roger’s bed and stares up at the sloping ceiling.

Roger brings him breakfast in bed which goes uneaten as John reaches hungrily for Roger.

Later, as he lies entwined with Roger, he wishes he could be with Roger all the time – wishes that life could always be so sweet. He thinks of the little green bottle still in the pocket of his coat hanging in the hall downstairs and thinks he should drink it later, once they get up.


End file.
